


on a history book page

by inlovewithnight



Category: exile - Taylor Swift (song), folklore - Taylor Swift (Album)
Genre: F/F, High Fantasy, history vs fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27879802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: The story as it's told, and the story as it was.
Relationships: OFC/OFC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	on a history book page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhovanel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/gifts).



(the story as it’s told) 

It was a celebration, a feast of the court for the queen’s birthday. Knights came from all the neighboring kingdoms to participate in the joust and games. The queen rode to the hunt among them, and then sat on her high dais at the end of the games field, watching the men compete for the prize of her favor, her scarf, and a reasonable amount of gold. 

One knight stood out among the others: tall, fair of face, with dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. It was whispered among the court that he came from a land over the mountains, and that he was pledged to wander the world until he found true love. 

(the story as it was) 

There was a celebration. There was a feast and jousting and games, as well as riding to the hunt. Knights came to compete for the prize of the queen’s favor, scarf, and gold. All of that was true. 

The story began to blur with the arrival of the Knight of the White Flower. If his crest makes it into the story as told, it’s as a white rose. But roses don’t grow in the kingdom he came from. The flower was something else entirely, something the queen and her people had never seen before. They called it a rose to save their own time. 

The Knight was not fair of face. His skin was dark and smooth, unblemished above his beard and below his close-cropped dark hair. 

And he was not pledged to wander until he found true love. He was pledged to wander _for all his life_ , his heart and his body pledged to the holy being whose image he carried on a cord around his neck. 

The queen’s court had never heard of a man swearing chastity and vowing his life to his—god? Saint? They couldn’t find a word for it in their own tongue. So they rewrote his vow to one they could understand, to save their own time. 

This wasn’t right. But it was very human. 

(the story as it’s told) 

The knight from over the mountains, with a white rose upon his shield, won the jousting. The queen presented him with her scarf and spoke words of favor. Their eyes met, and they both fell silent, gazing at each other with a sudden rush of feelings that neither of them had known ere that day. 

In the woods nearby, just beyond the far end of the jousting field, the Gray Witch, the bane of the court, clenched her fists in rage. For the first time, she saw a threat to her power over the queen. She had held sway over the poor woman since she was born—the witch was immortal, of course, and had crouched over the queen’s cradle like a frog, binding her up in enchantments that could only be broken by true love’s kiss. 

(the story as it was) 

The Knight of the White Flower did indeed win the jousting. He accepted the queen’s scarf with a nod of his head and permitted her to tie it around his arm. Such an innocent sign of favor did not threaten his vow. 

The queen and the knight met eyes, and both smiled, a flicker of recognition coming alight like a candle flame in both their chests. While they were not blood kin, they _knew_ each other, on a level deeper than the body, into the soul. They stood for a moment, honoring their silent kinship. 

The court, as they tend to do, rewrote what they saw into something they could understand, to save their own time. 

As for the Gray Witch, in the woods—she was there. She was gathering herbs to press in the stillroom, having little interest in jousting or games. She was not immortal. She had known the queen since infancy because she was an infant then, too; they had grown up together, running the length and breadth of the castle grounds. 

Her only power over the queen was the power of the heart, and if true love’s kiss had anything to do with it, it had reinforced the bond between them a thousand times. 

(the story as it’s told) 

After the jousting, the court rode to a second hunt. The queen and the knight from beyond the mountains led the rest, their horses racing neck and neck, the wind running its fingers through their hair. 

The Gray Witch hovered in the air, watching the hunt with cold fury. Brackish water gathered around her in midair. Her hatred made it bubble and steam until she gathered her power around her and lashed out, sending a thunderbolt across the green fields to strike the knight’s horse and cast him crushed and bleeding to the ground. 

The knight was pure of heart and deed, though, and the entire world rebelled against the Gray Witch’s evil. The thunderbolt turned away from him, striking the ground nearby. 

The queen’s horse screamed in fear and stumbled, trying to swerve away from the noise and flying earth. The queen clutched at its mane, but lost her seat, and it seemed that the Gray Witch would kill not her rival, but her pawn. 

(the story as it was) 

The second hunt was quite late in the day. The light had shifted its angle over the trees and the hillsides. There was a divot in the ground, left by a prior hunt, or an animal burrowing its den, or perhaps a rock that had been kicked aside by a cowherd. 

The Gray Witch was in the stillroom, working with her herbs. She knew nothing of what was happening in the hunting fields. 

The queen’s horse stumbled in the divot. That was all. 

(the story as it’s told) 

The knight’s purity again ensured that he could do more than any ordinary man. He kept his seat and control of his horse, wrenching the beast toward the falling queen and stretching out his arms to catch her. He cradled her to his chest, crying out thanks to the saints and angels for their blessing. And again, they gazed into each other’s eyes with true love, hearts swelling with recognition of the eternal pair for their souls. 

(the story as it was) 

The knight was an excellent horseman. He caught her and swung her up in front of him on his saddle, guiding his horse down to a careful trot. 

“Fuck,” the queen said, bracing herself against him. “He’s the finest horse in my stable. If he’s broken his leg, it sets the breeding program back years.” 

“I think he’s all right,” the knight said, his tongue careful around the foreign words. “He’s going to the trees very fast.” 

The queen turned her head and watched as her huntsmen raced after the horse, their shouts of frustration carrying back faintly on the breeze. “Well, that’s a little luck, at least.” 

She tipped her head up and smiled at him. “Thank you for your kind help, sir knight. I’ll tell the treasury to double the gold in your prize, as a token of my gratitude.” 

“You are very kind, your majesty.” He returned her smile shyly. “But in truth I might prefer a foal from that horse’s line, if he is your finest.” 

“Done,” she said, and their laughter rang through the air as the rest of the court caught up to them, calling out with concern in the fading light. 

(the story as it’s told) 

Their betrothal was announced that night, at the queen’s feast, with a beautiful speech from both about the power of true love. 

(the story as it was) 

Gold turned to foal turned to wedding band at the insistence of the queen’s council, who spoke quickly and loudly and left both the principals in their plans sitting bewildered and overwhelmed at the head of the feasting table, their hands lying next to each other but a knife’s width apart. 

“The fact of the matter is, your Majesty.” The head of the council spread his arms, as if embracing a whole world of those simple facts, ones that couldn’t be argued with. “He laid his hands upon your royal person. If the two of you aren’t wed, that is an unforgivable crime, on the level of an act of war.” 

“He very likely saved my life,” the queen said, her voice low and troubled. “If I had fallen under my horse I likely would have broken my neck, or been crushed to death.” 

“Nevertheless.” 

“How can it be an act of war?” the knight asked. “My homeland is far from here. You’ve never heard of it. Making war upon my people is impossible.” 

The head of the council shrugged, arms still spread, palms up now as if to show his helplessness. “The other response to an unforgivable crime is to put the criminal to death.” 

(the story as it’s told) 

The wedding was magnificent. The queen dressed in cloth of gold and silver. The knight—now the king consort—wore his armor, buffed to a brilliant shine in the sun. They both carried wreaths of white roses. 

The only flaw of the day was the Gray Witch’s howls of rage from the woods beyond the castle, where she fled to seethe alone. Bog water gathered around her feet again as she ran through plans to take her revenge. She refused to lose control of her pet royalty. She refused to be defeated by the love of a pure-hearted man. She would destroy him, and if that meant destroying both queen and kingdom—then so be it. 

(the story as it was) 

The wedding was lovely, but quiet, and took place too quickly for weaving cloth of gold or growing white roses. The queen would not allow a man to be put to death for saving her life, and her ability to overrule her councilors was limited. “We’ll marry now,” she told him, holding his arm tightly as they walked to the castle’s chapel. “And figure out how to undo it later. We’re buying time. Don’t worry.” 

The Gray Witch stood witness to the wedding of her beloved to a man from far away. She watched her place the ring on his finger, the crown on his head, and name him consort. She didn’t cry. The water that gathered around her feet was troubled, but clear, and smelled of a storm over wide fields. 

(the story as it’s told) 

The Gray Witch cast her first spell that night, to block the consummation of the marriage. If the queen bore a child, all of her work would be lost. The witch used magic to send the royal pair into a deep sleep, keeping them apart through that first night and each night that followed. They slept beside each other, but with a gap between them as wide as the sea, yet so subtle that none of the royal attendants or the councilors who waited eagerly for an heir could notice it. 

(the story as it was) 

The Gray Witch cast a spell of secrecy and silence over the queen and king consort’s chambers. She lay at her beloved’s side, holding her close, while the knight who never meant to cause all this trouble slept on the other side of the great bed, his body tense with worry even in sleep. 

“We’ll make a plan,” the witch murmured, offering them each warm herbal tinctures to help them rest. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a way out.” 

(the story as it’s told) 

The court waited in hope all through the winter, as snow built in drifts as high as a horse’s head around the palace walls. The queen and the king-consort moved about as if unaware of any of the speculation chasing them. They walked hand in hand; they ate side by side; they spoke in low voices and smiled gently at each other. It was truly a blessing to look upon the peace of their love, the courtiers said, but why was there not yet any sign of a child on the way? 

Only the Gray Witch knew, and her smile was neither peaceful nor gentle nor kind. 

(the story as it was) 

It took all winter for the Gray Witch to make her plan and weave the spells she needed. In that time, the queen and the knight played their roles, planned the practical side of things, and forged a deep friendship that shone as purely as any love in any romance ever told. 

The queen gave the knight gifts studded with jewels, once that would easily be removed to fund his journeys later, or gifted to good works he came across in his travels. She made preparations for herself as well, shifting her personal funds from one place to another, turning some of them into coin and some into letters of writ that could be claimed in any great city in the known world. 

At night the three of them lay in the great royal bed, hands clasped one to another, and smiled with hope. 

(the story as it’s told) 

In the first green of spring, the Gray Witch struck, when her power was deep from the length of the winter. She cast a spell born in foulness and deception, a lie that struck into the minds of the people when they were weary and not able to resist. 

She claimed that the king consort, that good and well-loved man, had found her alone in the stillroom and attacked her, forcing himself bodily upon her. She claimed grievous harm, unlawful behavior, and threw herself before the queen who had long been her pawn, crying for justice. 

The roots she had sunk into the queen’s mind over the years dug in deeper with her fresh power, the spell newly-cast. Tears flooded the queen’s eyes, and she cried out in horror at her husband’s betrayal. Before anyone else could speak or intervene—before the councilors could demand evidence, or the justices call for a trial—she cast her wedding ring to the floor between them and declared him an exile, never more to be welcome in the land held in her name. 

(the story as it was) 

The three of them woke early on the first day of spring. The queen held her morning salon with the court, while the knight took his horse out for exercise. Only a few stableboys were about at the early hour to wonder why he took two other horses out as well, but returned alone. 

After taking lunch with her court, the queen retired to her chambers for prayer and rest. When the great doors closed behind her, the Gray Witch took her hand, and the two of them took a last look around the rooms where they had hidden their love for so long. 

Then they wrapped dark cloaks around their bodies, shouldered their travel bags, and slipped from the castle and out to the fields. The witch cast a spell to keep eyes off them as they walked; even the two horses standing placidly in a grove of trees at the field’s far end were startled when she dropped the spell beside them. 

(the story as it’s told) 

After the king-consort was exiled—and king-consort no more, of course, only a nameless, discredited man—the queen fell into a rapid decline. A broken heart cannot sustain a body, much less one burdened by the cares of state. She grew thin and pale. She took to her bed. At Midsummer, she died, and all the bells in the kingdom tolled in grief. 

(the story as it was) 

The knight joined them an hour later, his horse rested and refreshed again, and they rode for the border. When they reached the great trade road that ran east and west, they halted, and the women and the man gazed at each other for a long time. 

“We won’t meet again,” the knight said finally. “But I won’t forget you.” 

“We won’t forget you either.” The queen smiled at him, bright as the sun. “Best of luck on your quest. May you serve your vow well.” 

“Thank you.” He bowed his head, then returned her smile. “May you and your beloved find everything you seek.” 

He rode away to the east, perhaps to reach the faraway mountains of his homeland, perhaps to turn and wander somewhere else. His story was no longer part of theirs. 

The queen-no-longer and the Gray Witch looked back at the kingdom that had been hers, and now waited for the next hand to guide it. “Goodbye,” the queen said softly. “I wish I could have been what you needed.” 

“The land forgives you,” the witch said, light gathering around her hands as she prepared to cast the last spell of their escape. “And the people will soon forget.” 

(the story as it’s told) 

[End notes to Chapter 7 in the Official History as Prepared for University Students] 

This tale is believed to be a corrupted version of the history of how leadership of the kingdom shifted from the Lily Branch to the Rose Branch of the royal family. The Rose Branch had previously been considered a cadet line, but took power when the Lily Branch faded out in uncertain circumstances. The palace histories from the reign of the final Lily queen are muddled and contradictory, and diaries, letters, and preserved oral histories of the era become virtually incoherent in the years around the final Lily queen’s reign. Even her name seems to have been blurred from the records, which is quite strange, given the importance... 

[several lines omitted due to illegibility] 

In the end, of course, this is merely a historical puzzle of little interest. The important thing is that the Rose Branch took the crown, and has ruled us well ever since. We are so fortunate to have such leadership. Our thanks to the king and the council!


End file.
